


Quiet Magic

by lolo313



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 08:10:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9712793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolo313/pseuds/lolo313
Summary: Scott would do anything to keep his friends from harm. Including cook a Valentine's Day dinner for his single best friend.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [graceml](https://archiveofourown.org/users/graceml/gifts).



> A gift for my good friend. Thank you for being a part of my fandom family, hope you enjoy!

            Scott would do anything to protect his friends from harm. This included fighting rival packs, outgunning hunters, and taking on all and every manner of supernatural horror that wandered into Beacon Hills. Whether claws or bullets or poison-tipped stingers, Scott would throw himself before danger if it meant sparing his friends pain.

            The same was true for emotional hurt. Something tender broke in Scott’s heart whenever his friends had cause to shed tears—or worse—when they were too bruised and battered to cry, and simply stared out at the world from a distant, dark place. Which is why Scott stayed up for three nights in a row with Isaac after Allison, or visited Lydia every day she was in the hospital, why he’d spent hours with Liam working on breathing exercises. Anything he could do to ease the pain. Werewolves were easy; emotions were hard.

            Which, if Scott thinks back, is why he suggested Stiles come over for Valentine’s Day dinner. For as long as Scott had known Stiles—how many years was it now? More than he could count—he’d hated Valentine’s Day. Every year, as January thawed into February, Stiles would begin, again, to tell him how it was all _Hallmark marketing plastered over a brutal, medieval execution, and what the fuck does chocolate and roses have to do with hasty marriages performed to get out of army service anyway_? As the days ticked off the calendar his shoulders would stoop together, his face darkening as he glowered at the sudden profusion of lace-ringed hearts and chubby-thighed cupids that dotted the halls of Beacon Hills High. He’d mime gagging whenever they passed a couple, lips and fingers intertwined.

            “I mean, come on, you’re in public, whatever happened to common decency?”

            Scott would nod along, soothing when he couldn’t agree. Scott _loved_ Valentine’s Day. Not that he’d ever had a Valentine. But just the idea of love, of a day dedicated to letting people know you cared about them. He always did something special, even if only for his mom, usually a fancy dinner, with too many dirtied dishes and more mess than meal, but it was worth it for the way her face would go sunshine soft or the lingering seconds of her hug when she tasted the salsa he’d made from scratch. Scott had tried to explain to Stiles that it didn’t all have to be about _romantic_ love, but his explanations fell on deaf ears. Lydia strolled past them, laughing at some no-name muscle boy’s unfunny joke, and Scott smarted, already feeling the sting that made Stiles curl inwards.

            “Why don’t you come over? For dinner, I mean.” The worlds had left his mouth without conscious thought, the same way he’d find his feet moving, running towards a threat before his brain even had time to process it. More instinct that anything else, a primal need to protect. “My mom got called into the hospital—Donna’s out with the flu—but I already bought all the ingredients. I’d hate for them to go to waste.”

            Scott would do anything to protect his friends. He knew how loneliness could bite, the bitter taste of solitude like a rotten peach pit. What was a meal between friends? Besides, a date was just a number, 14 no different than 15. So why did his heart skip a beat when Stiles said yes? Why did his smile stay with him all day?

 

            “You’re spreading yourself thinner than the last pat of butter when you can’t afford groceries.” The corner of his mother’s eyes crinkled with concern. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”

            “Yes.” Scott flipped a few pages in the cookbook cradled in the crux of his elbow, stirring the pot of bubbling sauce in between chopping onions. “At least I think so.”

            Melissa’ eyes lingered over a suddenly boiling pot of water. She double-checked the time. “Maybe I should just—”

            “Mom. I got this.” Scott pulled her into a hug, let himself melt into the embrace. Listened, just for a moment, to the soft murmur of her heartbeat. Felt, if but for an instant, a child once more. “Have a good day at work. I love you.” He waved her out the door, watched her climb into her car before he called, remembering, “And happy Valentine’s Day!”

            Scott dashed back to the kitchen, took the sauce off the heat just in time to save it from burning. He dumped the pasta into the boiling water, remembered to salt it. The chop of his knife against the wood of the cutting board sounded like knocking, so it was no surprise when Stiles got fed up waiting and let himself in. Scott jumped, but only a little.

            “Dude, you scared me.” But his cheeks appled into a smile. Stiles looked… _good_. He’d dressed up—was that a new shirt? Sharp button down tucked into freshly laundered jeans; Scott could smell the hint of detergent under the rich spice of musk, a borrowed dash of the Sheriff’s cologne. Stiles clutched a bouquet of posies, the plastic wrinkled as he worried the knot at the base.

            “You’re the werewolf with a knife, I should be the one who’s scared.” Stiles held out the flower, slipped his hands into his jeans when Scott took them. “For your mom. Sorry I stole her special dinner.”

            “You can’t steal something that’s freely given. But she’ll love them. Can you stir that?” Scott searched through cabinets, found a vase, filled it with tap water, set the flowers on the table. On impulse, he lit the candles kept more for show than illumination. Back in the kitchen, Stiles’ lips dipped into a spoonful of taste. Scott ignored the swipe of his tongue across them, the slow rapture of closed eyes as he groaned appreciatively.

            “Damn, Scotty, you’ve been holding out on me.” And Scott knew it’s a joke, that Stiles meant his cooking skills, knew too he should already be coming up with some witty rejoinder, but his stomach twisted and he busied himself with spices.

            “Could you set the table?” And in the emptiness of the kitchen he could breathe, but the air lost some sweetness, dull where once it shone. Scott clicked off the stovetop, shifted the food from pots to serving dishes, laid a sprig of parsley like he saw on TV. Arms full, he teetered into the dining room. “Little help?”

            Stiles unburdened him, set the food down. He sniffed, flared nostrils, hand wafting in front of his face, before he smacked his lips, thick, Italian accent smothered over his words. “Zis isa tasty pasta, Scotty.” And it was so _dumb_ , so _Stiles_ , Scott had to grab the back of his chair, doubled-over with laughter, to keep from falling to the floor. “I’ll grab us some cokes.”

            “Wait.” And Scott didn’t know what he was doing, knew the effect would be wasted on him, but maybe, just maybe…it’s a gamble, a roll of the dice, but he can call it kindness, blame it on the special occasion, with Stiles none the wiser. He grabbed the bottle of wine tucked beside the fridge, popped the cork, came back with two glasses. “Don’t tell my mom.”

            “I won’t if you don’t tell my dad.”

            They cheered, the clink of their glasses crystal thin. Bitter fruits splashed across his tongue, a second of burn before it was gone. Stiles gulped down a mouthful, sputtered and coughed, teeth stained red. Scott patted him on the back, topped off his glass, suggested they sit down, only because the feel of Stiles’ heartbeat through his fingers made his knees go weak.

            Scott impressed himself with how everything turned out. Stiles too, if his rapid, barely chewing, _dude-slow-down-or-you’ll-choke_ inhalation was anything to judge by. He polished off three helping of spaghetti bolognaise, and half a loaf of garlic bread. Scott poured the dregs of the wine into Stiles’ glass. Cherry blossoms bloomed in his cheeks as he walked Scott through the story of the time they’d put super glue on Coach’s seat. His tongue wagged as he gestured, threatening to stain the carpet, but his laugh was infectious and Scott could barely see from how his grin scrunched his eyes up. He wasn’t drunk, couldn’t be, but there was something in the looseness of Stiles’ shoulders, something freeing in his voice just shy of too-loud. Outside the sky had darkened and they sat in near obscurity, safe within the circle of candlelight that flickered and danced with their breath.

            Scott piled up the dishes and deposited them in the sink, flat out refusing Stiles’ offer to help wash up. “We have a dishwasher, this isn’t the 18th century.” But he insists, stating the inordinate amount of water waste engendered by dishwashers every year, and didn’t he want to go green? In the end it was easier to roll up his sleeves and let Stiles slide in beside him. They spoke little, listening instead to the rush of soapy water, the squeak of sponges on porcelain. Stiles was close enough Scott could feel the heat roll off him, their hips bumping whenever Scott reached across to slot another dish into the drying rack. Water filled the sink. A clatter of cutlery scattered across the bottom. Scott plunged a hand beneath the surface to gather them up, Stiles looped an arm beneath his, reaching for the drain. Beneath the surface their fingers brushed.

            “Woah, easy their Shamoo.” Stiles flicked his fingers, wiped at his now-sudsy shirt from where Scott had splashed him in his haste to pull away.

            “Sorry, sorry.” Scott grabbed a dish towel, started to wipe at Stiles’ shirt, but thought better of it, handing him the rag. “Will a little dessert make it up to you?”

            “You’re lucky I’m a forgiving man.”

            Dishes done, they settled on the couch. Neither of them had suggested the movie, but neither had declined it either. Maybe because eating a box of chocolate together on the couch in silence was too weird, even for them. Scott read over the list of ingredients for allergies while Stiles flicked through the channels, settling at last on something French and black and white. Scott watched the actress, a pretty blond, tell her Japanese lover about living through WWII, but he listened to the crunch of chocolate in Stiles’ mouth, the slide of his swallow. When he darted a tongue across his lips, he smelt the sugary burn of artificial strawberry. Scott pressed a bonbon to his mouth.

            The movie seemed sad, but hard to follow, as Stiles gradually migrated across the couch. “You really need to rearrange the furniture in here, you can’t see anything from this side of the couch.” Stiles lifted the box of chocolate as he scooted onto the cushion next to Scott. Scott allowed his fingers to linger over his next selection. The arm he’d draped over the back of the couch now hovered above Stiles’ shoulders. “You can put your arm down, if you want. You know, if it’s more comfortable.” And Scott shouldn’t, _really_ shouldn’t, because he knew Stiles was just being polite, was always oddly comfortable with touching, but wouldn’t be if he only knew what Scott had been thinking these past—weeks? Months? Years?—but there was that little encouraging grin that had convinced him they should break into his dad’s office, sneak out in the middle of the night looking for a dead body, so what’s one more bad idea? And maybe Scott imagined it, but he’d have sworn when he wrapped an arm around Stiles’ shoulders he snuggled up closer against his chest.

            Scott lost the thread of the movie, hyper-focused on every movement Stiles made. When he leaned forward to scratch at his ankle, Scott worried this was a hint for him to take his arm back, until Stiles wrapped a hand around his wrist to pull himself up. He let go eventually, but not right away. Scott could still feel the burn of where his skin had touched his. They’re so close, Scott couldn’t tell their heartbeats apart. Not till Stiles’ started to slow as the movie dragged on. Out of the corner of his eye Scott watched Stiles’ eyelids droop shut, lips parted gently with sleep. His head lolled onto Scott’s chest.

            Something inside Scott’s chest cracked like an egg. Yolk ran all over his insides, and no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t scoop it all back in. He fumbled with the fullness of his feelings, fingers inadequate to handle the foreignness of the stirrings in his belly. He watched the hair fall across Stiles’ forehead, connected the moles from ear to ear. He counted the seconds between each breath, holding his own, wondering how many he could collect, store away for later. He thought of it as stolen time. What a silly expression. Time could not be stolen, like kisses. It belonged to no one. And you couldn’t steal that which was freely given. He imagined a world where they kept time in heartbeats instead of minutes. What he’d give to make Stiles his clock.

            The movie ended, credits scrolling up screen. They flashed white across Stiles’ cheek. He stirred beside him, eyes fluttering open. Scott watched him wake. Stiles looked up at him, a lazy smile spread across his face. He looked at Scott as he never had before. Something strange and precious. It did something to him, subtle and unnamed. A quiet sort of magic.

            “Hey, Scotty? If I ask for a favor, promise me you’ll do it?” His voice was sleep-drunk, rough in ways that shouldn’t turn Scott to putty. He wanted to grab him a glass of water. Or cover his mouth with his own. Or both. Definitely both.

            “Yes,” Scott rushed to say, “of course. As long as it’s not illegal or needlessly dangerous.” Stiles laughed, a soft half chuckle, which hummed all the way through his chest into Scott’s, because he knew—hell, _Scott_ knew—that that wasn’t true, that Scott would do anything for him. The realization was staggering.

            “Close your eyes.” Scott did, too caught off by the strangeness of the request to question it. He felt Stiles shift and sit up. The squeak of the springs rang in the quiet. Was he leaving? Easier to ghost than have to explain that _while dinner was nice and all, this was just too much, and shouldn’t we stay bros_? Scott squeezed his eyes shut, hands balled into fists, so he didn’t feel Stiles looming over him, didn’t smell the scent of red wine and chocolate moving towards his face, not till Stiles pressed a kiss onto his mouth.

            For all his love of Valentine’s Day, romance novels never held his interest. Soppy, overly dramatic plotlines lost in the tangle of their own bedsheets put Scott to sleep if he could stop rolling his eyes long enough to shut them. Who talked like that, really? When had anyone ever actually taken someone’s breath away?

            But, oh. How wrong he was. Because that’s the only word for it, for Stiles’ lips, stained red, a little smear of chocolate still stuck to the corner, pressed against his own. Breathtaking. Only when Stiles moved against him, kissed him again, deeper, did he remember to breath. He opened his mouth, kissed back, unsure what to do with his hands till they tangled in Stiles’ hair like they’d always belonged there. Because they did.

            When they pulled apart, Stiles’ cheeks matched the tip of his nose, neck flushed. Scott breathed heavy, each mouthful thick with the smell of Stiles’ shampoo. For a long moment they didn’t look at each other, and when they did Scott felt drunk on his whiskey eyes. Then they were laughing, breathless, wheezy laughter, till their sides ached and tears pricked at the corner of Scott’s eyes, because it was all too funny, the hesitation, the anticipation, so many wasted hours.

            “Did you expect to invite me over for a date and not get a good night’s kiss?”

            “Who said it was a date?” They were still on the couch, legs touching, hands on the other. Scott thrilled at such freedom, the ability to touch unchecked.

            “A homemade meal, wine, chocolate, and a romantic movie don’t scream date to you?”

            “Hey, _you_ picked the movie.”

            Stiles smiled wide, a twinkle in his eye, or was that still the glare off the TV? “Yeah, I did.” He leaned in and kissed Scott, slow and full of promise.

            “Does a good night’s kiss mean you’re leaving?” Scott couched the regret in his voice with forced casualness. After so long, he knew he should be grateful, that one more night meant little in the face of all the possibilities now stretched out before them. Yet part of him worried that this had all been part of some magical dream and that he’d awaken tomorrow with nothing but the fading memory of Stiles on his lips.

            Stiles grinned and leaned his forehead against Scott’s. His fingers smoothed the back of his head, lost in the tangle of his hair. “No. It just means I’m going to bed. I didn’t say whose.”

            Scott always hated the day after Valentine’s Day. The crestfallen romance, the half-priced chocolates, the vengeful spite of social media. But as Stiles pulled him upstairs, stopping half way to press him against the wall, hips and lips hot against him, and the clock ticked over past midnight, Scott realized that the fifteen of February just might be his favorite day of the whole year.


End file.
